


Thicker Than Ink

by TheSingingCynic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7958524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSingingCynic/pseuds/TheSingingCynic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Super short fluff story of gift giving ^-^</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thicker Than Ink

It had been a few months since John had left Mary. There hadn't been a discussion but John had found himself living back at 221B, the duo falling effortlessly back into pattern. Though John had been noting strange acts of out of Sherlock’s character, he would come back from work and find the kitchen stocked full of actual edible substances. A week ago he walked into the living room to finding a box of bullets sized for his pistol on the table and a note saying he’d found them in an evidence locker-no one needed them. Little odd things that never happened before John’s marriage but when John tried to question him, Sherlock would shrug it off and evade till John’s frustration wore out.

Today was beginning the same.

“What’s this?”

“An early birthday present.”

“What, why-”

“Just open it, John.”

John still bore a frown and pinched eyebrows inspecting the oblong package placed in his hands. He peeled off the wrapping slowly revealing a smart wooden box with a small metal latch. He thumbed it open and inside was a pen of the same wood nestled in a satin mound. A beautiful handmade twist point pen, he picked it up delicately inspecting it between his fingers in admiration before twisting the pen open noting the nib was red.

“It’s blood.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not ink, it’s blood. A specific cartridge of blood actually, kindly donated by ‘The Woman In Pink.’”

John stared at the taller man sat next to him then back to the pen.

“Our first case.” John muttered more to himself than to Sherlock, John knew that today was their anniversary of moving into 221B as basic strangers. He didn’t think Sherlock would have remembered, let alone think today held some sort of significance. But this was too much of a coincidence, and for Sherlock, ridiculously sentimental if not slightly unnerving.

He realised he hadn’t said anything for a lengthy amount of time as he was processing. He turned to Sherlock who looked pained. “Thank you, Sherlock.” He said as sincerely as he could and Sherlock’s frown eased, eyes lighting like he had been holding in a breath.

A giggle from the kitchen reminded John; Molly and Mrs. Hudson were chatting in the next room, which made him rethink offering of the rare one-sided hugs shared between the men. Knowing Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate the gesture if the company was to walk in at the affection he reached across the sofa and squeezed his hand in thanks.

He made to move away when Sherlock squeezed back. John looked at Sherlock with a smile Sherlock never usually returned physical affection which was fine John understood the boundaries and the give and take of their friendship, maybe it really was his birthday. But Sherlock didn’t return his smile, instead, he wasn’t even looking at John but staring intently at their joint hands. John squeezed back enjoying the contact.

Sherlock’s thumb stroked carefully over his knuckles experimentally in one soft movement. John froze, the air shifted. After Sherlock seemed satisfied John wasn’t going to pull away, he stroked again, while another finger stealthily slid to the inside of his wrist.

John horrified, recognised the action ‘The fucker is checking my god damn pulse.’ He attempted desperately to slow his heart rate but the long fingers brushing against his was charging some battery in him that made his blood pound loudly in his ears. He was still frozen as the finger moved away from his racing his pulse giving Sherlock what he was looking for because the feather light touches became less hesitant. Drawing lavish patterns up and down his skin. Sherlock turned John’s hand palm up and nudged at his fingers. John offered his palm openly with no resistance.

John’s eyes couldn’t settle between their hands or Sherlock’s face in deep concentration. John was simultaneously at ease and on edge, he was aware his breathing had changed and was coming in short succession. He was aware that something was changing, he was aware that whatever Sherlock was doing was making his cock twitch, but he was aware that he didn’t care, as long as it didn’t stop.

But when Sherlock’s ministrations circled from his palm to the delicate bit of skin on the inside of his wrist John clamped his eyes shut, hissing. “Christ Sherlock.”

That was encouragement enough for Sherlock to add another hand. John was achingly hard now, what the fuck was Sherlock doing to him. Some voice was telling him to try and work out Sherlock’s motives, or just the physiology of how he was so close to release just from someone touching his hand. He’d never been that sensitive, even as a teenager, but here he was, Sherlock having no trouble of pushing him to the edge. So he kept his eyes shut and tried to control his breathing.

Sherlock was now safe to watch John’s face with his eyelids tightly welded together. He varied his touched from deep massaging to fleeting scratching and John was practically vibrating in his hands. His breathing soon became more frantic so Sherlock mirrored his touches, focusing on the particularly sensitive areas he had noted pushing John. Till he watched shudder and arch off of the sofa. Sherlock watched it all his hands still working on John, easing him back.

John had come practically silently, still aware of the guests in the next room, and hyper-aware that he was coming to his best friend touching his hand. He still hadn't opened his eyes, not wanting to see what would be waiting for him when he did. But he felt the warmth leave his hand and a swipe of wind pass his face and heard the click of the door. When the rest of his senses slowly came back to him he opened his eyes to a half empty sofa. Sherlock had left, the pen filling the empty void next to him as a reminder that it did just happen.

Before John could process any of it Molly and Mrs. Hudson emerged from the kitchen.

John doubled over in a not so subtle attempt at covering the damp stain on his trousers, he hoped his face didn’t look as flustered and flushed as he felt.

Mrs. Hudson eyed him suspiciously.“Where’s Sherlock?”

“O-” John cleared his throat. “Out. Just had to run out quick, something about Lestrade being an idiot.”

“He didn’t ask you to come?” Mrs. Hudson queried mercilessly.

John blinked wide-eyed trying to even his voice. “Hah, no he didn’t need me this time.”

Mrs. Hudson shrugged resignedly towards Molly. “Always trouble that one eh.”

‘Fucking tell me about it.’ John groaned inwardly as Mrs. Hudson and Molly said their goodbyes and were ushered down the stairs leaving John alone with the weight of what had just happened. Sherlock wasn’t going to be back anytime soon, that he was sure of, either John had scared him off or he was John giving time to work through his feelings.

He studied the pen again. Blood huh. John was sure there was something poetic about it but he couldn’t quite place the thought, ‘pen mightier than the sword’ or something? He stroked down the smooth wood, and there was something so permanent about it, writing in blood. Like you were giving life to your words more so than ink, or you were writing a binding promise. There was a sudden weight to the pen, what could he ever write that would amount to that permanence, that importance, that someone had died for his words to be seen. Well, there was one thing. He grabbed a piece of paper and twisted open the pen.

‘221B Baker Street.’ Crimson shone on the paper and he smiled.

He nested the pen back in its box to take up to his room with him. However, he left the paper on the desk, facing the door. Happy anniversary Sherlock.


End file.
